As Iron Falls (The Wings of War Book 4)

by Bryce O'Connor

  Then Syrah spoke.

  “The Dragon has offered you a choice,” she said in a hard, cold voice behind which Raz could hear the strain of effort and grief. “He is generous in this.” She scanned the ranks of men, then took a single, deliberate step down toward the floor. “I am less so. Leave, now, or the White Witch will find reason to leave you as nothing more than charred bones and dust for the winds.”

  CHAPTER 57

  It didn’t take long, after that, for the last of the palace guard to flee. Some dropped their weapons, as instructed, but most were in such a rush to put as much distance between themselves and the ‘Witch’ that they had no other thought but to run. Initially, some twenty of the bravest and most loyal had stood their ground, but as the other eighty or so turned and bolted, half of those lost their courage.

  The others didn’t last much longer after Raz began moving toward them, twirling Ahna dramatically about his bloody body like he was itching for the fight.

  When the final stragglers were gone, scrambling through the broken frame of the court doors, Raz turned back to the dais just in time to see Syrah’s magic flicker and retreat, leaving her oddly bland, her hair and robes settling about her as she fell to one knee with a groan. The men scattered about the room blinked and cursed under their breath as they approached the stairs again, some looking up at the wounded Priestess apprehensively, others still gaping around at the destruction left in her wake.

  Tossing Ahna over one shoulder, Raz, too, hurried to the dais, kicking aside helmets and debris as he took the steps three at a time.

  “Your leg,” he muttered worriedly once he reached the top, kneeling so he could study the wound. It was an ugly thing, maybe an inch deep and four wide, and blood still welled from it even as he watched. “What can I do?”

  Syrah grimaced in response. “You?” she asked with forced amusement. “Nothing. Me, however…” She passed a hand over the gash. There was a flash of white, and she hissed in pain.

  When she pulled the hand away, the smell of seared hair and skin told Raz the slash had been crudely cauterized.

  “I’ll do a better job later,” Syrah muttered, breathing hard and shutting her good eye in what was probably an attempt to control the ache of the sealed wound. Raz nodded absently, his attention already turned back to her face.

  After a moment, he reached up with his free hand to cup her chin gently.

  “Are you all right?” he asked her softly.

  This time, Syrah did flinch at his touch, but didn’t draw back, bringing her own hands up to grasp at his as she tilted her cheek into his palm, sighing with what might have been relief.

  Then she pulled his fingers away.

  “No,” the Priestess said with a sad shake of her head. “Not at all. But now isn’t the time to dwell on it. Like you said: we still need to get out of here.”

  Raz watched her a moment more, not missing the fact that she didn’t let go of his hand. There was a deep, aching sadness across her porcelain features, but he couldn’t tell how much was grief for Lysa and Argoan, and how much was sorrow for the broken vows that lay heavy upon her.

  “We’ll honor the captain and Lysa the moment we get a chance to,” he promised her. “If I’d known this is how it was going to end, I never would have had us set foot on that ship…”

  Syrah smiled dolefully, choking out the sort of small laugh one gives when one’s heart lies in pieces at their feet. “You didn’t want to in the first place…” she said, almost despairingly, her lips tightening as she fought back more tears. “You were the only one who… who…”

  “Who thought the Sylgid might be a trap,” Raz finished firmly. “I hesitated out of self-preservation, not out of concern for Argoan and the crew. If their death is anyone’s fault, Syrah, it’s mine.”

  “It is not,” Akelo’s voice broke in. “That blame rests on neither of you.”

  Together, Raz and Syrah looked around at him. The old Percian had doffed his helmet respectfully and was standing over the place where Garht Argoan’s body had been cast across the stone, frowning down at the faint stain of dust that was all that remained of the corpse. Around him, the rowers from the Moalas who had survived the palace assault stood by his side, a few with heads bowed as they prayed. Only Aleem, Esser, and Nudar—the only men left alive from the slaves rescued along the eastern roads—waited at the base of the stairs, not having known the captain or his first mate.

  “I recall that the captain’s boat was manned only by freed slaves and anyone looking to start life anew,” Akelo continued, blinking a tear away as he raised his eyes to Raz and Syrah. “He took us aboard without hesitation, even offered us a place among his crew. I cannot imagine he did not know the risks of offering you passage as he did. He was a brave man. He and his first mate both.”

  And then, for the first time ever, Raz saw Akelo’s face twist into something ugly, a wrath-filled, vengeful grimace as the Percian’s gaze moved past him and Syrah and on to the figure still twitching on the floor behind the Priestess.

  “That he and his first mate were brought here, though,” the old kuja thundered, ramming his helmet back over his head, “tells me that there is someone responsible for their death.” He started ascending the steps, drawing his sword as he did. “If anything, their death was ordered by the only man in Karesh Syl with the power to reach them so far away.”

  There was a grumbling of angry agreement from the others, but as Akelo neared the top of the dais, Raz moved to block his path, barring him from getting any closer to the fallen Tash.

  “Not yet, my friend,” he told the old man calmly as Akelo started to snarl in outrage at the interruption. “This is not the place. We may yet need him.”

  “Need him?” the Percian demanded in disbelief, his blade clenched so tightly at his side the blade trembled. “The only thing we need is his head, Raz!”

  “Agreed,” Raz answered with a nod, reaching out to take the man by the shoulder, keeping his tone level, “but the manner by which it is taken, and where it is taken, could have great importance.”

  For a few seconds, Raz feared Akelo would punch him, or at least yell at him to get out of his way. Then, though, the man relaxed, realization dawning across his face.

  “The Hands as well?” he asked in a much more composed voice.

  Raz smiled in grim relief. “Yes. Even as corpses, they’ll be of value.”

  Akelo nodded, his eyes straying back to the shaking form of the dying Tash, still choking and wheezing at the foot of his throne.

  Then he sheathed his sword with a click and turned to the others gathered across the steps, shouting orders as he descended once more.

  As the men began moving, following the Percian’s commands and climbing the dais to collect the Tash and the corpses of his former advisors, Raz caught Karan’s eye, motioning the young atherian to join him. She stepped in beside him at once, looking curious as he led her back to where Syrah still knelt.

  “Karan, help Syrah,” he told the female quietly as he lent the Priestess a hand, pulling her to her feet. “Stay with her. Keep the others away as best you can, at least for the time being.”

  Karan very clearly found this request odd.

  “Keep the others… away?” she asked, confused, blinking between the pair of them.

  “Far away.”

  It was Syrah who spoke, her voice a little steadier, though she still looked worn and miserable. Even as she clung to Raz for support, her free hand was absently tracing the scars of her other wrist, and she gave him a pained, grateful smile which only served to rip at his heart even more.

  As he’d feared, Lysa was dragging up old memories.

  “I’m sorry, Karan,” Syrah continued, turning to the younger atherian, who still looked befuddled. “I’ll explain as we walk. It might… It might do me good, to talk about it.”

  Karan, at last, seemed to deduce some inkling of what was going on, and with a sad drop of her face she nodded at once, accepting Syrah’s w
eight and guiding the limping woman back down the steps. They were halfway to the floor below, Raz already turning to see if he could help the others, when the Priestess stopped them and partially turned to look back up at him.

  “Raz,” she said uncertainly, her face twisting in what might have been sadness. “My… My staff… Could you…?”

  “Absolutely,” he answered as her request trailed off, already looking around. He found the weapon gleaming some thirty feet from the crater along the right side of the steps, looking as though it had been blasted away by the explosion like most everything else on their side of the room. Hurrying down the stairs, he extracted it from beneath the charred torso of a soldier that had fallen over it, relieved to find the steel unharmed. Returning to the base of the dais where Syrah and Karan waited, he made to hand it over.

  For a long moment, the Priestess stared at the staff, her one eye tracing its length with an odd mix of fondness and misery. Eventually she reached out with her free hand, as though to accept it, but hesitated before her fingers could touch the steel.

  “Actually,” she said, looking up at him miserably as she retracted her hand. “Could you… Could you hold on to it for me? I’m… a little tired…”

  If Raz’s heart fell any farther, it was going to be crushed beneath his feet. For a second he stared at her, lost for words, starting to see the true toll the morning’s events were having on the woman.

  “Of course,” he said finally, trying for an encouraging smile as he slid the staff over the shoulder where Ahna already rested, but managing only what he thought must have been a pained grin. “Let me know when you want it back.”

  Syrah nodded gratefully, relaxing as the patterned steel was pulled away. Then, with a final look at him, she and Karan started the long, slow walk up the courtroom, following Akelo and the others as they hauled the Tash and his Hands in pairs toward the shattered doors of the chamber.

  It was as he watched them go, grief welling in Raz’s throat, that he noticed the gleam along the far wall of the room.

  It took him a moment to recognize the curved shape of the head of his sagaris shining against the ash, but when he did he hurried over, picking up the weapon and blowing it free of soot as he checked it for damage. Finding it intact, he looked around, spotting his gladius a dozen feet away. He made for it, sliding the haft of the axe into its loop on his hip even as he bent to pick up the sword.

  It was then that Raz discerned a weak, broken chuckle from his left.

  At once, he whirled, snarling instinctively, blade held at the ready. Expecting to be faced with some enemy that had been lying in wait in the smoky shadows of the battle’s aftermath, it took him a moment to figure out what he was seeing, his mind playing catch-up to his body.

  Finally, Raz realized he was looking into the hard, empty eyes of Azzeki Koro, propped up with his back against a nearby pillar, legs splayed out over the floor and white teeth stained with blood even as he grinned devilishly.

  “I guess my gamble didn’t pay off?” the Percian wheezed, watching Raz straighten slowly at the sight. “Almost, though. Almost.”

  Raz said nothing, studying the man’s shattered body for a long moment. Koro looked to have avoided the worst of the flames. Only his left arm and leg were seared and smoking, like he’d managed to drag himself across the ground to get behind the column just in time. By the way the limbs dangled, though, along with his other leg, Raz realized that the man appeared to have no control over them. Only his right arm still worked, and then just barely, his hand and fingers loose and useless as the former Captain-Commander of the Azbar guard reached up to awkwardly wipe blood and spittle from his lip.

  Koro had broken his neck.

  “Na’zeem told us to watch out for the woman,” the Percian continued with an exasperated sigh as Raz started moving slowly toward him. “He told us. I thought we listened, but I guess not well enough. In the end, I was as blind as all the others.”

  Raz frowned in disgust, reaching the former assassin and easing himself down to squat before the man.

  “Garht Argoan and his first mate,” he growled, easing Ahna and Syrah’s staff off his shoulder and onto the floor by his feet. “Your idea, I take it? I recall Quin Tern tried something similar. You should have known better…”

  Koro shrugged, or tried to, only managing to awkwardly hitch his right shoulder a little.

  “It was all about the timing,” he said with a huff, so dispassionately they might have been talking about what part of the day was best for a jaunt about the city. “So close. So close.” He gave Raz another reddened grin, raising his lame hand again to tap at his forehead with some difficulty. “Almost had you. Right there. Right between the eyes. So close.”

  “Almost,” Raz told him with a slow nod. “But you failed, as cowards tend to do.”

  Koro’s face twisted in anger.

  “Coward?” he demanded in a wheezing voice as he struggled to breathe. “I met you face-to-face. I drew first blood. I was nearer than anyone to becoming the slayer of ‘the Monster.”

  “No,” Raz said with a shake of his head. “You weren’t. Another came closer. Much closer. And as vile a man as he was, he was anything but a coward. He didn’t hide in the shadows, waiting for the moment to strike. He didn’t strive to use my heart and conscience against me.” Raz snorted, bending forward the slightest bit so he was eye-to-eye with the man. “If you’re hoping to die with the pride of being the closest, know that you are a distant, distant second, and craven to boot.”

  At that, Koro did his best to lunge, his howl of outrage weak and pathetic as he swung his limp arm at Raz’s face.

  He didn’t even get close to landing the blow before Raz’s left hand took him about the mouth, crushing his jaw shut as he slammed his head back against the column behind it.

  “No,” he hissed into Koro’s ear then, baring his fangs and leaning forward to bring them inches from the side of his face. “No. No more surprises. No more daggers in the night. You feel you deserve my respect? Feel you deserve my admiration? The only thing you’ve ever earned from me is wrath, Azzeki Koro. You’ve butchered too many of my friends, stood in my way too many times. I should have killed you when you blocked my path in the Arena, should have torn you to pieces then and there.”

  Raz drew his head back so that his golden eyes could bore into the Percian’s. “This is better, though,” he hissed hungrily, lifting the gladius he still held bare in his hand and pressing its edge to the man’s throat. “There’s something I’ve wanted to do for almost a year now, Koro. Something I do feel I owe you.”

  Then, with slow, deliberate ease, Raz drew the blade sideways, feeling it cut through skin and flesh.

  “I wondered what it must have felt like,” Raz continued loudly, raising his voice over Koro’s muffled scream of pain and terror through the leather of his gauntlet, utterly ignoring the man’s flailing right arm as the Percian tried desperately to fight him off. As blood began to flow across the steel of the gladius, Raz laughed. “I wondered what thoughts must have crossed your mind, as a little girl cut her own throat on your blade.”

  The sword wasn’t even halfway along when Raz felt it start to saw through windpipe, and Azzeki Koro’s screaming stopped even as his thrashing redoubled

  “Is this what you lived for?” Raz asked him, pressing the man’s head harder back against the stone. “For the moment where you owned another completely? Where everything they were or could be started to slip through your fingers as they died? Is this what brought you pleasure, what brought you joy?”

  The last few inches of steel found bone and, as Raz finished drawing the gladius through the man’s neck, Koro's violent struggles began to lessen.

  “I can see the appeal,” Raz told him with a cold smile, staring into the man’s eyes as the light began to fade from them, blood pouring in a sheet from the great wound that now half-severed his neck. “Given the right situation, I can certainly see the appeal. I knew a little girl once, too
, who might have felt the same…”

  CHAPTER 58

  “Do not be fooled into believing that cutting the head from the snake will put a quick end to the fight. The body will thrash and squirm, struggling to live without the mind. In the end, it will die, but—in the meantime—try not to be crushed in the writhing of its coils…”

  —Ergoin Sass

  The battle came to a head in the very central plaza of the south-east district, the Sun blazing clean and fearsome to the west in the clear mid-morning sky. It was a good sign, Dulan Yazir hoped, glancing up at Him from atop his destrier, thinking it might be a favorable omen in the fight to come.